


boys and their toys

by writing_good_vibes



Series: i see you only at night [5]
Category: Death Machine (1994)
Genre: F/M, Guns, Reader-Insert, References to Drugs, Weapons, jack being surprisingly competent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29826132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_good_vibes/pseuds/writing_good_vibes
Summary: Jack likes guns.(Jack Dante x Reader)
Relationships: Jack Dante/Reader
Series: i see you only at night [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168649





	boys and their toys

**Author's Note:**

> damn i'm really on part five aren't i?  
> written by someone who knows literally nothing about guns.  
> once again features jack being weird, but also smart

Jack liked guns, like _really_ liked guns.

You didn’t mind too much; you’d known him long enough that the waking up to the odd gun left lying around didn’t totally phase you.

Though, he kept quite a few on his person too, tucked away amongst the junk in his coat pockets. While looking for his pills or a scribbled idea on a cafeteria napkin, he might pull one out absentmindedly, just to remove it as an obstacle to his search.

***

One day he showed you his collection, or maybe part of it? You couldn’t remember every gun he had, if he got a new one it went straight over your head, but one day he _did_ show you his collection.

He handed them to you one by one, wide eyed when he got to one of his favourites.

“If you shoot a guy point blank with this, his brains go _splat,_ ” he illustrated his point with a wild gesture, worrying only due to the gun still being in his hand, “at least 8 feet behind him.”

You raised your eyebrows to show interest.

There was no doubt in your mind which was his _favourite,_ though. A Desert Eagle Mark VII. He actually took care of it, looking it over and checking the muzzle when needed, he had it personalised with his glyph, a tiny doodle of his own design that he used to mark things as his. You even saw him clean it once, which astounded you to no end. The man you had witnessed go months at a time without showering was shockingly precious about his Eagle.

***

Sometimes you wondered if you _should_ mind his extensive collection. You avoided looking at the boxes of ammo crammed to the back of one of the shelving units. Why did he keep so much around? Sure, he tinkered around with guns all the time, or idly played with them whilst he watched TV, but shooting them? A totally different story. All his guns _were_ loaded, you knew that. _And_ you knew him well enough to speculate that he might have an itchy trigger finger.

One day he asked if you wanted to learn how to fire a gun. You lowered the book you were reading to your chest and looked at him from where you lay on the mattress.

You hesitated for a second, then said, “Sure.”

You stood up, throwing the book aside as he pulled two guns from his pockets.

He handed you the Colt, keeping the other, one you didn’t recognise, for himself. “This is an easy one, you should be to able handle it,” his eyes widened pointedly.

“Shut up,” you sneered, taking the gun from him, the weight of it foreign in your hands. You kept your finger away from the trigger, you knew enough to at least do that.

His laugh was sharp.

“Hold it tight,” he instructed, cold fingers trying to adjust your hand on the grip. “Then hold it up, shoulder level.”

You did as he said, getting way too into it by squinting your eye to try and look down the length of the barrel. He straightened your arms out and away from your face. He told you how to aim, standing behind you to look over your shoulder, to see what you were seeing.

Jack never ceased to amaze you whenever he revealed another strange and unusual quirk about himself, but realising he was somewhat competent on gun safety, when he seemed to do nothing but strive for the opposite, was something you were still trying to wrap your head around.

“This is the safety. Flick it off like this,” he nudged the thumb safety down.

You tried to keep your hands from shaking. You’d never, _ever_ held a loaded gun like this before, not with the safety off and the ability to just… fire it.

Your breathing slowed, the tension in your chest unbearable as you looked down the barrel.

He lurked around behind you, watching your shoulders rise and fall with each measured breath.

Then he kissed your cheek. Circling around you, he kissed the other, until he was facing you, head lowered, eyes boring into yours. He crept closer, closer, until the barrel was pressed against his sternum. With every one of his own breaths, the barrel was nudged, pushing the grip into your hand and back again.

“Put your finger on the trigger,” his words were almost sing-songing. An untamed depth in his otherwise intent and purposeful gaze.

You did. Index finger just _barely_ touching the curve of the trigger. You knew what Jack was like, you were not taking the risk of applying even the tiniest pressure.

His hand curled around the muzzle.

***

“What do you like so much about guns?” you ask one day, watching him adjust the trigger of the Desert Eagle. You’d seen him do this dozens of times before, you were pretty sure he just adjusted it and then _re_ adjusted it back to his preferred setting.

“Are you kidding me?” he didn’t look at you, continuing to scrutinise the gun in his hands, “They’re fucking cool.”

You shrugged, “Well, yeah, I guess. But what do you like _about_ them?”

You looked around the room. The walls were covered with posters and magazine clippings, mostly from Playboy (or whatever other seedy mags he bought), but between the glamour shots, there were blue prints of rifles and handguns alike, posters of Glock wielding action stars, and torn pages from _American Handgunner._ His entire life revolved around weaponry, and you knew perfectly well Jack didn’t do anything he didn’t want to do.

“I don’t know,” he mused. His lithe fingers were firm on the grip, “They’re powerful. And I can just _hold_ them in my hand, y’know?”

You looked back at him. His shoulders were hunched low, he caught your gaze through the veil of his hair. The hum of the servers seemed to get louder as an unusual silence fell over you both.

For every inconsequential thing you knew about Jack, there were a hundred things you _didn’t_ know. Like where he was from, or where he went to school ( _if_ he went to school), what he did when you weren’t around, why he seethed at the mention of his boss. Why he got just as fucking excited when it was _you_ holding the gun instead of him.

***

Is that a Glock in his pocket, or is he just happy to see you? Both, actually.


End file.
